


Salvation

by adamwhatareyouevendoing



Series: Meanwhile in Mercia [3]
Category: The Last Kingdom (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, F/M, Post-Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-15
Updated: 2020-10-15
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,865
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27029959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adamwhatareyouevendoing/pseuds/adamwhatareyouevendoing
Summary: Aldhelm's hopes have only ever been for Mercia and for Aethelflaed—to be saved alongside them is something he never permitted himself a belief in. Luckily, Aethelflaed has always possessed an ineffable way of defying expectation.
Relationships: Aethelflaed Lady of Mercia/Aldhelm (The Last Kingdom)
Series: Meanwhile in Mercia [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1640533
Comments: 28
Kudos: 20





	Salvation

**Author's Note:**

> I'm slowly inching my way towards covering S4, but this season was so far beyond my wildest hopes for them that I had to do some more post-S3 exploration to lead in nicely, and then I ended up writing way more than I expected. Bon appetit!

By its very nature, there is something graceless about falling in love, with nothing to break the unwilling descent until the inevitable, painful end. A love held alone and kept within, buried deep and dark, only truly finding its beginning in one final desperate act caught between wraith and ruin.

Bravery, she calls it, when they find voice to speak freely of it—his quiet, damning confession drawn carefully into candlelight, elevated beyond fear and shame once illuminated. He presses her hand where it rests lightly in the crook of his arm, the warmth of her fingers bleeding through linen, and might agree had he not already sought the shape of bravery and found it entirely in her.

In truth, he is reluctant to examine his intent too closely lest he find it to be anything other than good and true. It is enough that she does not find him wanting—that she looks at him and sees something worth placing her trust in.

For all that has changed irrevocably between them, it is still no safer to long for more.

* * *

Yet for one golden evening, his feelings are as light to bear as strong to hold, granted freedom and allowed to simply be, without scrutiny or repercussion.

It is this, perhaps, that is the most blinding of all—to carve a place for themselves within the bounds of duty and decency. To be seated beside Aethelflaed, in the presence of those closest to her, rather than at her husband’s right hand. A place where it is respectable, even expected, for him to lean in and be drawn into close conversation, the feast fading around them until they could be the only two souls in the hall.

He can ask for nothing more than the soft words and unguarded smiles she bestows, for all the times they have attended such ceremony with her husband between them, and, in his quiet observation, rarely found an occasion for mirth.

Of course, firm upholding of tradition may not extend to escorting her back to her chambers, the path to her door now as familiar as the one she has worn to his heart, but her ease of manner remains as their footsteps whisper across stone.

They draw to a halt in the shifting shadows, imposing oak looming in judgement as he reaches for the door handle, but he is not afraid of what lies beyond.

Tonight, he will leave her. Only tomorrow rests unknown.

“My heart remains yours, Lady,” he tells her, clear and certain, bronze warming urgently beneath his palm. Tells her, without hope or expectation, before her husband returns and he has cause to conceal it once more—before their lives depend on the success of that concealment.

She knows, of course, both the sentiment and the meaning behind the words, the timing.

Her gaze flutters and falls, a thin smile on lips he longs to cover with his own, wild and reckless, an urge that he has not yet learnt to counter—something aching and relentless grown of this feeling between them, tender and newly unfurling. A small frisson of something, enough to knock him further from equilibrium.

Sometimes he wakes gasping in the dead of night, sharp pain slicing at his stomach where the skin pulls taut around fresh scarring, still caught in the coil of disturbed dreams that are only crueller echoes of reality. Sometimes she is the one to wield the blade that sears his flesh, pale and mistrusting in the cold moonlit gloom of her estate. Sometimes she begs for mercy, her breath coming hot and fast, mouth wet beneath his palm.

Some nights, he wakes for other reasons.

She knows this, too, he thinks—the way her eyes spark, pupils blown wide and dark in the flickering torchlight—but she does not shy away from his touch.

Instead, she leans in, the scent of honeyed fruits and rich wine still lingering faintly in the air, and presses her lips to the arch of his cheek, fleeting warmth brushing his skin in the space between one leaping heartbeat and the next.

“You know it and I know it, that must be all,” she says, a soft caress of breath into his ear as she withdraws. It sounds more command than plea, a close and fervent echo of the desperate words he offered in defence the night he broke his oath for the protection of all he holds dear.

A small mercy, but merciful nonetheless—the meaning as clear as if she’d said the words themselves, lying stark and honest between them, as though she knows he would sooner bleed himself dry before surrendering her life for the sake of his honour. It will be cruel enough to relinquish all they have formed, knitted together by scar and sinew, vital and alive.

Yet for every sacrifice that must be made, they cannot return to an earlier state of existence, when he was nothing more than a humble servant and she raised high on a pedestal above him, untouchable. No matter how endless the charade to come, he will never be able to forget the forbidden warmth of her skin against his in those brief, brave moments when they dared to reach beyond propriety with hands to heal and hands to hold. Her lips upon his cheek, blooming with heat and hope.

There is no return from such an intimacy, no recovery from it—a lasting reminder as constant and unerring as the turn of the seasons. His only hope is that reverence can be concealed by perfect civility, enough to snuff any small suspicion or kindling interest, even if any fond inclination she may hold for him cannot survive in the face of it. It is a painful bargain, but one made willingly to ensure her safety.

He can no longer be used as a pawn in Aethelred’s scheming. It is, perhaps, the safest position he could hope to hold.

“Until tomorrow, Lady,” he murmurs, afraid to shatter the quiet that shrouds them and chase away the last precious moments of her company, as though he could ever lose the memory of it. For all his reluctance to part with her, he risks being sculpted in stone if he lingers any longer and then no one will be able to remove him from her side.

Her hand falls gently from his arm and he does not allow himself to miss the sensation further than acknowledging the creeping chill that steals across his skin at the sudden absence of her fingers.

“Goodnight, Aldhelm,” she says, a quick smile flirting the corners of her mouth, and then she is gone in a twirl of skirts and loosely braided hair, leaving him stunned in her wake.

* * *

Dawn breaks blearily, staining the horizon beyond the palace walls with its low grey smudge, an obedient sentinel calling them to duty once more.

Aethelred returns to Winchester with all the wounded pride of a cornered animal caught between snare and surrender, twice defied and no less dangerous. If he is surprised to find Aldhelm alive and attending court beside his wife, there is nothing in his expression to betray him or threaten the smooth line of his indifference.

“My wife, the saint,” he drawls, cool silk over steel, “and another of her miracles. I am told you experienced quite the recovery, Aldhelm.”

“Indeed, Lord,” he replies smoothly, a calm veil over startled nerves. He cannot afford to be anything other than certain of their discretion, especially in the face of such shrewd speculation so easily turned to tinder and set alight.

It is easier to think, for every lie that leaves his mouth, that he is doing it for Aethelflaed’s honour over her husband’s, having seen such accusations levelled at her in the past, and, to his present shame, never spoken a word in her defence.

There has always been more than simply their lives at stake.

* * *

As daylight fades, it takes with it the uncertainty that has plagued each waking moment not already devoted to survival and to her.

Aethelred may have slashed a blade through every oath ever sworn, but his wife’s timely actions have been enough to heal the wound. Mercia’s future is sealed, indelibly united with Wessex once more.

It ought to be cause for nothing other than celebration, yet everything he wants is being laid as a feast in front of him and only a fool would indulge without an eye on those who would seek to steal it away. The weight of Aethelred’s silent and unyielding presence remains beside him, an alliance still to be reforged.

He watches as Aethelflaed safely leaves the hall, admiring the gentle curve of her face as she turns from him in case he never sees it again, then retires to his own chambers to await a dreaded knock that never comes.

Instead, the door handle twists slowly, silently, a faint creak of wood and the hush of soft footfalls on stone. For a moment, fear pulses within like the ache of blood rushing to a wound—then Aethelflaed slips inside, flushed and breathless.

In his fevered imaginings, she is drawn to him from Eden, a wild reflection of his own undoing. Yet she is here now, wholly beautiful, to serve solely as his salvation.

“Forgive my trespass,” she murmurs, once the door is locked and they are safely alone, pressing the advantage of his momentary distraction to close the distance between them. “I have thought of nothing else all evening.”

Her hand settles boldly on his chest, resolved to marble under gentle fingertips even as his heart beats into the empty space beneath her palm.

“It is no trespass, my lady,” he replies, allowing himself to permit the endearment after an endless day of formal titles and careful restraint. He would not hope nor seek to conceal that she is welcome to all he is, for all he has to give her. “Though, considering the lateness of the hour, I can only assume we have important matters to discuss?”

She takes his cue, as he always knew she would, a swift press of fingers against his arm before she moves away to pour them a generous measure of wine each, unquestioning of the flask’s presence or the two cups beside it. They both know whose company he was expecting tonight.

“I cannot see you return to him,” she says without hesitation once they are settled, assured and unafraid, miraculous. “Mercia may be saved, but the threat posed by my husband remains the same. I do not trust that he would spare your life, even if he believed you loyal.”

One cannot swear fealty to a wolf and be surprised when it bites. He has known Aethelred too long to be resolved to any other fate.

“I would do anything to keep you safe, Lady, no matter the cost.”

His heart seizes and stills with the warmth in her appraising gaze, like a sail awaiting a breeze and she his only heading.

“Yes, that didn’t escape my notice,” she says, low, a spark of chaos born in candlelight. “If I had been there, in that moment, to still his knife and save your oath, I hope I would say the same as I do now—that the cost is too high and I am not willing for you to pay it.”

“Lady,” he breathes, though it sounds more as a caress than a warning, an unconscious betrayal of his own intentions. He ought to return her words with desperate gratitude, with anything besides the helpless urge for dispute he finds himself reaching for instead, aching to rouse her quiet passion further in his defence.

A man with less to gain could afford to surrender without argument.

His hopes have only ever been for his country and for her—to be saved alongside them is something he never dared allow himself to believe in. But if there is one thing he has learned to be true, one thing he trusts with his life and holds proof in every heartbeat, strong and steadfast, it is that she has always possessed an ineffable way of defying expectation.

“I think, on reflection, in moments such as this, you might call me Aethelflaed,” she murmurs, flirting the edge of a command. Her palm flattens against the table, conquering the space between their fingers.

The intimacy of the request does not go unnoticed, but it is not the thing to strike him silent—it is her singular absence of doubt that their time together stretches infinitely before them.

“Lady,” he manages, rough and quiet into the flickering stillness even as a storm spirals within him. He means no slight by it, no lack of respect. Habit, perhaps, or simply cowardice—some small part of him unwilling to invite familiarity knowing there is no recovery from it.

“I know I ask a great deal of you,” she says. “Duty is a heavy burden, yet for all it tolls and all it takes, the hardest to bear is the duty we have to ourselves. When my husband departs Winchester, I cannot see you leave with him without knowing there was another choice.” Then, with the same depth and determination with which she saved his life, her proposal is made. “Become my man, Aldhelm, and you shall have my protection—as I will have yours.”

He cannot suppress his fragile surging hope at her words, even though they both know that there is rarely an accord between duty and choice. He has long been careful in nature, wary of the things he wants and those he fears. Sometimes it is braver to exist in the space between the two.

“And you are certain, Lady, that I’m the person you wish to stake your defence on?”

It is the first time he has seen her smile all day, and though he waits for her to confirm it, to quiet the beating wings of his traitorous heart, her fond exasperation feels like answer enough.

“Without question,” she assures him lightly, sincerely. “My husband may not surrender easily, but I see no reason why he shouldn’t be satisfied. You are worth more to me than any dozen men he could spare for my protection. Do we truly think he can say the same?”

There was a time, once, when he might have—when they were as royalty, together, Aldhelm strong and proud by his side. Before disillusion tore them apart, leaving only the tall shadow of memory as proof they were ever there at all.

“I know you are every breath a Mercian,” she adds carefully, “and I do not ask you to abandon your country. Only him.”

He cannot stand to be at odds with her wishes and his own, even for a moment longer. He has defended his intentions long enough. If there is a debt to be paid, it is Aethelred who owes it.

“I fear the fault is mine, in failing to be clearer before now,” he tells her, soft with apology. He reaches for the same courage that brought him to her door, wounded and vulnerable, certain of nothing but death and his belief in her. “My loyalty is yours, Lady, before all else. And if you are certain of having me, I offer myself without hesitation.”

* * *

They return to Mercia in the spring, once all is settled and Edward has taken his place on his father’s throne. For all the comfort Aethelflaed has found in Winchester over long years past, the palace feels a very different place without the devout dignity of Alfred’s court and counsel. Now, their heartland awaits.

“Your husband will have us watched,” Aldhelm muses once they are finally alone together, having parted company with Aethelred on the road to Aegelesburg and journeyed to Saltwic unaccompanied by further guard.

Aethelflaed raises an eyebrow, arch and amused. “Then we shall let him. He will not see anything we do not wish him to.”

He does not doubt her. She is the one who wrenched him, against all odds, from the grips of death and Aethelred’s service. In her presence, everything seems possible.

The fire sparks as he kneels before her, warmed by his own daring reverence as he takes her hand in his. “He will see nothing save for this,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to the backs of her fingers, chaste yet lingering. “For I will not allow myself to seek anything further.”

Her eyes catch his, then fall slowly to his lips, to the faintest touch of their skin. It feels more intimate than being bared to the waist before her.

“I would ask for nothing more than you are willing to give,” she says, knowing as he does that to love her freely in the face of her husband’s malicious intent would not be an act of defiance—that he is here to devote himself to her protection, not her ruin. Yet there is a teasing lilt to her voice as she adds, “Still, we ought to learn to live with a little happiness.”

It is, perhaps, these confidences of hers that shield them as the years pass.

**Author's Note:**

> And so we leave them to embark on an ambitious programme of DIY to transform their living quarters from what we see in S3 to S4. You betcha Aldhelm sleeps in the room overlooking the main gates.


End file.
